Kicking Butts
by Brandi N. Jones
Summary: Bobby guilts Jack into quitting smoking. Poor kid attempts everything from going cold turkey to acupuncture. Chaos, naturally, ensues. Rated M for language.
1. Playing the Guilt Card

**Plot Summary**: The title is rather tongue-in-cheek; hope it inspires a giggle or two. Bobby guilts Jack into quitting smoking. (If you've ever known someone who's tried to do so when they're not totally willing, you're probably wincing at this point...and rightfully so.) Chaos, naturally, ensues. Rated M for language (and adult content, perhaps, if you consider smoking to be such. That's your call.)

**Disclaimer**: Alas, I don't own any of the _Four Brothers _characters. Credit goes to director John Singleton and the writers, David Elliot and Paul Lovett. I keep none for myself. Tragic, I know.

**Author's Note**: Dedicated to Whilom, who inadvertently roused my muse from its apparent coma and encouraged the conception of this piece. Also for HaloFin17 and powerhungryjr, who expressed greed for more after my first _Four Brothers_ piece. :)

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**- - - Kicking Butts - - -  
**

I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I was sitting in my living room.

I could see the familiar painting on the opposite wall out of the corner of my eye, feel the plush couch cushion beneath me, smell the clean scent of the carpet freshener that had been sprinkled generously around before I'd vacuumed several hours prior. I could hear the television that was producing quite a racket about five feet in front of me. All my empirical senses were stimulated...so why did everything still seem so surreal?

I had turned on VH1 in hopes that it might distract me from the horrible circumstances that kept plaguing me, but while my eyes were glued to the screen, my mind was definitely elsewhere.

The inescapable truth was that my mom had died three days ago. Yes, she was getting up there in age, but this hadn't been a natural thing. It hadn't been an act of God. It had not been a random car accident, either. No. Nothing so simple.

Evelyn Mercer had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time during an armed robbery. The cowards had burst into the little convenience store like the hounds of hell, demanding every dollar in the register. Once they'd gotten what they wanted, they apparently were both struck with blood-lust. They loaded two bullets into the clerk, then shot my mother as she tried to hide behind an aisle...according to the rumors, at least.

Anyone can tell you I've had a rough life, but nothing in this world has ever been or will ever be as damaging as that random crime that took the only mother I've ever known away from me. To call this "heinous" would be to label it with the greatest understatement in history.

It was all I could think about. It consumed me; ate me alive from the inside out. I was terrified I'd never move past it, and it _hurt_. It was so painful I could barely stand it, and I'm no stranger to pain.

I had not seen the surveillance video; did not in fact know if such a thing even existed. I was pretty sure I wouldn't watch it if the tape was thrust into my hands, anyway. Too hard, way too fucking hard, to watch the angel that was my adopted mother in her last moments on this earth. It would rip me apart. Besides, in any case, my stupid mind filled in the blanks whether I wished it or not. I was blessed (read: cursed) with an overactive imagination. Perhaps it's some remnant of my childhood. Maybe I used to use my imagination to escape reality. I don't know. Haven't done that for years, if that's the case, because I was finally happy. Evelyn made me happy. And now she's gone, and I'm miserable again and wishing I _could_ withdraw into my mind and pretend this never happened. Make all this go away. But I can't, because memories fill it to the brim and there is no room left for wishful deceptions.

Van Halen blared from the television, but all I can ever seem hear is the voice of my mother. _"You are home, Jackie. You're safe within these walls. No one will hurt you here. You'll see." _I had been nine when I had arrived at the Mercer house, and terrified out of my mind at first, but I remember staring up at her as she spoke those words and suddenly realizing I trusted her instinctively. She was incredible like that. I remember that I asked her to stay. I had been left behind all my life, and now I wanted a stable figure in it. I'd picked the right woman; I knew this the second she replied. Her tone was gentle, but it held a strong promise as she told me, _"I'll never leave."_

_But you _did_ leave, Mom. You left and now we're lost little boys again without you. _I sighed, blinking back tears and raking a hand through my unruly hair as I lifted the remote and turned the volume down a bit. Surely one of my three brothers would be down here any minute, complaining that I'd been making the walls vibrate.

If only to think about something, anything, else, I had to wonder who would be the first to tell me to pipe down. Jerry, bitchy because his kids had kept him up the night before? Angel, bitchy because his girlfriend Sofi had kept him up the night before? Nah, most likely Bobby, bitchy because _I _had kept him up the night before. I'd needed to talk, and wasn't apologetic in the least bit, although I did feel bad for making him miss out on a few hours of beauty sleep. Bobby sure did need it; he was looking older by the day. I made a mental reminder to tease him about the crow's feet around his eyes. Anything to piss him off. He'd hate me for it, but he'd get over it. He's adored me since the day he laid eyes on me, and he can't stay mad at me for long.

As if on cue, a deliberately loud cough from the doorway interrupted my reverie. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the unexpected sound, practically giving myself whiplash as I jerked my head toward the door.

Bobby himself. I might have guessed. The bastard just stood there, leaning one shoulder against the door-frame, a smirk tugging at his lips. He obviously could barely contain his delight at having scared the piss out of me.

"Jesus, Bobby," I gasped, slapping the palm of my right hand over my heart to ensure that it didn't pound right through my chest. "You tryin' to kill me?!"

Bobby muttered just loud enough for me to hear that fairies are _so _easy to sneak up on. When I didn't rise to the bait, he shrugged and informed me, "I'm not really in a killing mood. Maybe later. Just want to chat. Want to spend some time with my baby brother. Have ourselves a heart-to-heart. How's life been treating you, Jackie?"

"I'm busy."

"Turn off 'Ricki Lake' and talk to your older brother. We have a lot to catch up on."

"'Behind the Music,'" I corrected without any real vehemence, turning my full attention back to the flashing screen.

"Your band on there yet?"

"Fuck off, Bobby."

"Those pretty puppy eyes of yours are going to fall out of your head, you know. Too much T.V."

"I'll take my chances," I answered dryly without moving said pretty puppy eyes from the screen.

At this point, Bobby apparently lost interest in pestering me about my television-watching habit and seized on another one he didn't approve of without skipping a beat. "You know, Jackie, you promised Mom you'd quit." To further emphasize his point, he nodded to the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table in front of me. I gave him a Look that indicated I didn't need him to water it down for me; I had known damn well what he was referring to long before he'd turned into Captain Obvious. Bobby just frowned, unruffled by my stare. "After all she did for you, it'd be nice to at least give it a shot. Show her she raised you right."

"You have a lot of room to talk. You beat people up for fun and then occasionally put a bullet in one or two of 'em."

"Not lately," Bobby replied calmly.

I adopted my most condescending grin. "Good for you! Congratulations! Bobby Mercer finally got his hands on some morals! Drinks all around!"

He ignored me. "You promised Mom," he repeated.

I sighed. Clearly, he wasn't going to let this go. "Yeah, well, that was before she was murdered and I started to stress out about it. When I'm stressed, I smoke." I pouted for dramatic effect. "What, don't you remember me at all, Bobby?"

His dark eyes narrowed. "I remember you _making a promise to Mom that you'd quit_."

"Selective amnesia," I mused.

"You said you'd quit, fairy, so quit." His tone became mocking as he added, "Be a _man_, Jackie-boy."

"If you're trying to dare me, or something, Bobby, you're wasting your breath. I'm too old for that." I sat up lazily, looking at the cigarettes wistfully as I contemplated the reward of having one versus the effort it took to obtain it.

"And too _young,"_ he retorted, swiping the pack before I could make up my mind, "for _these."_

"Dammit, Bobby, give 'em back. Don't be an asshole."

"No."

I snorted. "Are you going to play keep-away? Or maybe gather up Jerry and Angel and have yourself a game of monkey-in-the-middle?"

"I'm not in the mood for games," Bobby informed me calmly. "You are going to quit, Jack. I will make sure of it."

"I'm shakin' in my shoes, Bobby, believe me."

He stared at me until I had to fight the urge to squirm, then rolled his eyes and tossed the pack at me. Surprised, I caught it with carefully both hands as if it were a precious, fragile object. "Well, that was smart," I remarked sarcastically. "Take them away and then give them back to me. Nicely done. Hope you thought that one through."

"I'm trusting your integrity."

"Surely you know better than that by now."

Bobby rubbed his hand down his face. "Just do this for Mom."

"Fine." I retrieved my lighter from my jeans' pocket, then flipped it open. "One more. Then I'll quit. I swear."

"Do not light it. I'll pound you into that sofa."

Just to piss him off, I produced a cigarette from the pack and set it between pursed lips, then bent my head and let the tip meet the flame. Satisfied that it was lit, I closed the lighter with a flourish and sat back, inhaling deeply. Before I could release the plume of smoke as intended, however, Bobby literally jumped onto the coffee table and reached out, quick as lightning. Startled, I began to cough, and that's when he snatched the cigarette out of my mouth and crushed it on my belt.

He tossed the butt away, then looked at the pack still in my hand, but I was faster this time and quickly stuffed it beneath me. Once I was sitting on it, I tried not to imagine the damage done and simply stared at Bobby. "No such luck, bro."

"Come on, Jack. Grow up. Give 'em to me."

"But Bobby," I protested, not really caring that I was bordering on whiny, "why can't I just have one more? Give them a proper farewell?" I put on my best mournful expression, looking pleadingly up at him through my lashes and pouting pathetically.

As usual, Bobby didn't fall for it. His voice took on a harder edge as he insisted, "Hand them over."

"What difference will one more make?"

"Hand. Them. Over."

I straightened my posture on the sofa and smirked. I like to flaunt the fact that although he may be older, I am still at least two inches taller than he is. Even while sitting. Even with him perched on a table. "Or?" I taunted.

"Jackie..." Bobby snarled warningly. I arched a brow in response, and his glare intensified.

I was playing with fire, and I knew it. And here I'd always thought Bobby was the resident pyromaniac of the Mercer family.

"I'm not kidding," he told me coolly.

"Well, you're not really famous for your sense of humor, Bobby."

I swear he was on top of me in less than a second. I yelped as his weight settled on me like a sack of bricks. "Give them here," he stated with unnerving calm, "or I will flatten you like a pancake."

I couldn't help myself. The inspiration his comment sparked was too much. I announced brightly, "No, not a pancake...a flap-Jack!" A howl of laughter escaped me. Truly, one of my finer moments. I kept giggling even after he smacked me upside the head and assured me that only I could find something so stupid that hilarious.

He took advantage of my mirth and more or less dumped me off the couch. I landed with a thud and an insulted exclamation of "Hey!" He ignored me, regaining possession of my cigarettes and calmly walking out of the living room.

Well, shit. So much for victory.

Then, another flurry of inspiration hit me. I still had my driver's license. I still had my wallet. And the store was only two blocks away.

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_**To be continued... **_


	2. Any Means Necessary

**Disclaimer**: Alas, I don't own any of the characters. Credit goes to director John Singleton and the writers, David Elliot and Paul Lovett. I keep none for myself. Tragic, I know. 

**Author's Note**: I know the language is a bit much, and I normally don't fling obscenities around like this, but to keep the characters true to the movie, I kind of feel compelled to do so. Hope it doesn't offend anyone. Thanks, as always, to my lovely reviewers. Your kind words are fuel for my inspiration.

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Pleased with my own cunning, I slipped out the front door with as much stealth as possible, then headed off in the direction of the corner store. 

The more I walked, the more annoyed I became with Bobby's confiscation of my cigarettes.

I kicked at a beer can that was lying helpless in the street and glared at it as it clattered several feet ahead. How dare Bobby tackle me like that and snatch the cigarettes that _I _had bought? What gave him the right? Who declared Bobby Mercer to be Jack Mercer's moral compass, anyway?

I smiled to myself as the corner store I frequented to feed my nicotine addiction came into view. This would teach Bobby to hide my property.

After I'd gotten my cigarettes, paid and thanked the clerk, I headed out and walked back toward the house, contraband item in hand and a cocky spring to my step.

I opened the pack and shook one free as I stepped onto my lawn. In retrospect, this was a bit of a stupid move, but at the time I doubted anyone was watching.

I should have known better. This wasn't the first time I'd been dead-wrong.

As I reached to my back pocket for my lighter, I heard what could only be described as a battle-cry coming from my left. Confused, I turned just in time to watch my oldest brother vault over the hedge and make a beeline for me. I barely got a chance to process this information before Bobby slammed into me full-force, sending us both sprawling in the long grass in a tangle of limbs and a flurry of curses.

He flipped me over with more ease than I'd care to admit, climbing on top and pressing his knees into my kidneys. "I figured you'd be stupid enough to try to pull that shit," he ground out, mercilessly twisting my arm behind me until my fingers went numb and the pack dropped onto the small of my back. "I wasn't born yesterday, Jackie, my boy. I'm older. Wiser. I've seen 'em all. Every goddamn trick in the book. You can't outsmart me."

Shouting various obscenities, I struggled as mightily as I could, but I was no match for Bobby. He shifted his weight (more specifically, totally onto me) and the air rushed out of my lungs in a _whoosh_. Gasping for breath, I managed somehow to throw him off, but he rolled expertly and then was upon me again in seconds. I started coughing and he just laughed, thumping me hard on the back. This only increased my hacking, which I swear felt like it was coming from the depths of my soul. "See?" he said casually. "This is why I want you to quit. You can't even _breathe_, idiot."

My coughs subsided and I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but before I could, we heard the screen door bang open, and both paused long enough to discern who had materialized on the front steps. Angel stared back at us, not looking the least bit surprised that his oldest and youngest brothers were tussling in the yard.

He groaned. "Bobby, man, get up off Jack. What the hell are you doing?"

"Just takin' what was promised, Angel. Go on back inside. I've got this under control."

Jerry must have heard the commotion, because he came outside to investigate for himself. He stopped dead on the first step, gawking in disbelief. "The fuck?" he half-shouted. "What is going _on _here?! Bobby! Get your ass up before you crush our little brother! Jack, what did you do now?"

"Why is it always _my _fault?!" I gasped out, but everyone ignored me.

"Bobby!" Angel yelled again. "Get your cracker-ass up!"

Bobby seemed to be weighing his options. It was a quick decision. "Angel!" he yelled, tossing the pack in his general direction. "Catch!"

Angel nabbed my cigarettes in midair with one hand. Not for the first time, I begrudged him his quick reflexes and unerring hand-eye coordination.

Bobby didn't realize his mistake, but I did and wasted no time. He'd let go of my hand to throw my pack at our brother, and I seized my opportunity with pleasure. I reared back my arm and landed a decent punch to Bobby's jaw. He released me in his surprise. Guess he didn't expect the little fairy to retaliate, or to have such a strong right hook, for that matter. Even backward, I evidently have good aim. As I tried to untangle myself, Bobby hollered, "Go!" When Angel just stared at him, perplexed, he repeated himself in desperation. _"GO!"_

"Go wh—" Angel cut himself off, watching as I wrestled free of Bobby and leaped to my feet. When I started running toward him, he spun around and took off into the house, nearly bowling Jerry over in the process.

Jerry was smart enough to move aside as I ran up. I took the steps two at a time, but still couldn't catch up to Angel and almost ran into the front door as it was slammed in my face. I tried the knob, but found the door was locked. "Shit!" I growled, looking around. I was pleased to see the kitchen window was wide open. Wouldn't be the first time I'd climbed through it when all other entrances were blocked. I ran over, gripping the ledge with both hands as I easily hoisted myself up. Years of practice have paid off, apparently. I pulled myself inside, then dashed toward the stairs, knocking over a chair in my haste. I could hear Angel moving about on the second floor, and I knew I had to reach him before he did anything drastic with my cigarettes.

The bathroom door closed just as I reached the top of the stairs. I heard the click of the lock as I approached, but I flew at it anyway, pounding on it with my fists. "Angel! Open up! Let me in!" I heard him laugh, and my temper flared. "Dammit, Angel, you asshole, this is between Bobby and me!"

"Sorry, kid, no can do; I have my orders." Angel's disembodied voice was filled with amusement.

"Don't make me kick this door down!" I shouted. I had stepped back and was preparing to do just that when I heard the toilet flush. I froze as my heart sank.

"Too late, little brother," Angel announced loudly, contriving to sound sad.

"_ANGEL!_" I roared, furious.

I swear I could _feel_ him shrug. "Oops. My bad. Sorry, Jack, they just fell in."

"And then what?" I shot back, balling my hands into fists at my sides. "They just _flushed themselves?!"_

Angel opened the door, stepping out and watching me with a calm expression of incredulity. "Yeah, it was the weirdest thing..."

I glared, but knew better than to start something with Mr. Ex-Marine. "Asshole. This wasn't none of your business, Angel. This was between me and Bobby. Didn't have a damn thing to do with you."

"Look, Jack, I don't answer to you. I answer to Bobby. He's the man of the house."

"Yeah. So it goes. How fucking predictable. When I have an opinion, it doesn't mean shit. But when _Bobby_ asks you to jump, you ask, 'Off what, sir?' "

Angel scowled. "Piss off, Jack. They're gone. You've already thrown your hissy-fit, little sister, so move on and get over it. You're not gonna die without them."

I called him several unflattering things beneath my breath, then turned and walked into my room, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

"Don't slam doors in this house! You know Mom hated that!" Angel yelled after me, but I ignored him. The Mom card had already been played once today. I wasn't in the mood to acknowledge it again.

I decided that the best thing to do to avoid going off on Bobby and Angel would be to mess around with my guitar and see if I couldn't coax a decent melody out of it to go along with the harmony that had been running through my head for the past two days.

I retrieved my guitar case from where it leaned against my closet door, setting it gently down onto my bed and opening it with more care than most people would believe me capable of. I gazed down at my precious instrument, then ran my left index finger lovingly over the smooth surface before lifting it reverently out of the case. I'm sure this goes without saying, but man, I do love my guitar.

I settled down cross-legged on the bed and was just about to make sure it was in tune when I heard a knock on my door. Irritated, I glared at the door and snipped, "What?"

I wasn't surprised to hear Angel reply. "You still pissed?"

"No."

"Just a little sore, eh?"

"Go away, Angel."

"I wanted to ask you something," he said, knocking again as if that would compel me to open up.

I stayed right where I was. "I get the feeling you won't leave until I answer, so fine. Shoot."

"Are you going to try to go to the store again? Bobby's put you on house arrest and I'm sure I'll be the one stuck baby-sitting your ass most of the time, and I don't feel like chasing you all over town."

"No, I won't."

"How can I be sure?"

I shot the door another hard look. I didn't even really need to do this, as I already knew the answer, but I felt my back pocket anyway. Then sighed. Sure as the world. This is why it sucks to have brothers who are well-trained in the art of thievery. Rolling my eyes, I announced coldly to Angel, "Because Bobby took my wallet."

Angel laughed. "Good move. Well, Jackie-boy, guess you're just gonna have to go cold turkey. Won't that be fun." Annoyed, I tossed a shoe at the door. The resounding thump only made him laugh harder.

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_**To be continued...**_


	3. One Good Reason

**Disclaimer**: Alas, I don't own any of the characters. Credit goes to director John Singleton and the writers, David Elliot and Paul Lovett. I keep none for myself. Tragic, I know.

**Author's Note**: This chapter's for Whilom, who recently added to her story "Black Magic" after much persistence on my part. Apparently, we're having a bit of an (amiable) update war. :) You really should go give that story a once-over as soon as you've finished reading this. It's wonderful.

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After Angel had left me in peace, I spent three and a half hours working on my latest piece, somehow managing to get absolutely nothing accomplished. It seemed all I wanted to sing about was cigarettes. Honest to God. It was infuriating. Frustrated by my lack of progress, I decided at around six-thirty that a shower might help my mood. Anything to take my mind off the cravings.

I had just gotten the shampoo into my hair when someone walked into the bathroom. Praying that it wasn't Sofi, I said, "Whoever's there, kindly get the fuck out."

The sound of the toilet seat knocking against the porcelain tank echoed through the small bathroom. "I'm just taking a piss, Jack. Chill." Bobby. Go figure. He never gives anyone privacy.

"Man, go piss in the yard. I don't want company."

"You know I only do that when I'm drunk. Other times, I like to pretend I'm civilized. Shock people. Do the socially acceptable thing for once."

"Whatever. I'm almost done. Don't you dare flush, Bobby, or so help me..." As if in answer to my unfinished threat, the toilet flushed. I screamed blue murder as the water turned scalding.

"Sorry, Jackie," Bobby called. He didn't sound the least goddamn bit sorry to me. "The opportunity was just too good to pass up."

"Yeah. I can see how the chance to give your brother third degree burns would be really goddamn tempting." Rather than answering, Bobby simply yanked open the shower curtain. He exploded with laughter when he saw me. I just stood there, unaffected. "What's so fucking funny?" I intoned.

He eyed the pile of lather on my head. "Nothing, Princess Bubbles."

I kept scrubbing at my scalp. "You know, you really could use a shower yourself."

"You're just wishing I'd hop in with you."

I batted my lashes at him. "Am I really so transparent, baby?"

Bobby made a face, then pulled the curtain closed. "Save it for the boyfriend back in New York, Jackie."

I tried to sound pouty. "Bubba doesn't like showering with me."

"That's because you sing so off-key while you suds-up. Told you it's nerve-wracking."

Just to irritate him, I began to serenade him with some Aerosmith. I heard the bathroom door close, and smirked. Well, at least it got him to leave.

After I'd rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, I got out of the shower and dried off. I tried very, very hard to not think about how much I'd like to have a cigarette, and decided the only way to properly distract myself would be to go downstairs and piss someone off. What luck, too, because it's what I do best.

After getting dressed, I put away my guitar and headed downstairs.

I could hear the television droning from the living room, so I padded in there, scanning the scene impassively. Bobby was sprawled on the floor on his stomach, his head propped up by several pillows to make his television-watching experience that much more comfortable. Angel was sitting on the right end of the couch, Sofi stretched out along its length, her head in his lap.

They were all glued to the evening news, looking completely fascinated by the report on a six-car pileup on I-75. They didn't so much as glance up at me.

Imagine their annoyance when I stepped right in front of the television.

Angel was the first to retaliate. He threw a small needle-work pillow at me. I ducked and it sailed over harmlessly. "What the hell? Jack, man, c'mon. Move. I'm watchin'!"

"Sorry, Ang, no. I'm not going anywhere until Bobby stops being an asshole."

"That may never happen, Jack," Sofi volunteered.

I didn't even acknowledge her, but Angel indulged his girlfriend with a polite snicker. I sensed from the sigh he released afterward, however, that he was way too irritated to be genuinely amused. "Just give Jack back his stuff, Bobby, for the love of God. You know he'll never stop whining."

Bobby shot Angel a glare. "Stay out of this," he snarled in a tone that even made our hustler of a brother cringe. Then he shifted the glare to me. I also cringed, but did not back down. "What do you want, Jack?" I opened my mouth, but Bobby Mercer is nobody's fool. "No. Don't even ask me for your cigarettes."

"I don't want them back. I want restitution."

"Ooooh. Restitution. Big word for a guy with such a small dick," Angel muttered. Bobby and I both ignored him. Even Sofi didn't giggle; clearly, she wasn't as eager to please as her pussy-whipped boyfriend.

Bobby folded his arms across his broad chest. "I don't owe you nothin'."

"You owe me a pack of cigarettes," I informed him. "If you won't return them, I'd still like my three dollars back."

Angel rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's three dol―"

"Angel!" Bobby barked. "Stay out of this!" He looked at me, jerking his head toward the kitchen. "In there. Now." I opened my mouth to protest that he had no right to order me around, but he was already up off the sofa and marching out of the room.

Scowling, I followed him, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and watching as he rather roughly pulled out a chair at the table. I winced as it scraped loudly against the linoleum. "Sit," Bobby instructed.

"I am not a fucking dog, Bobby."

"Sit. Down." When I just glared at him, he walked over and grabbed me by the elbow. Ignoring my squeak of objection at the manhandling, he simply dragged me over and more or less shoved me into the chair. Bobby sat down in the chair across from mine, his eyes never leaving my face. "Now," he said flatly. "What do you want, Jack?"

I was still trying to come to terms with his aggressive reaction. "Do not do that again," I said quietly. "Do not push me around, Bobby."

"Stop giving me that fucking look, Jack."

"What fucking look?"

"_That _look."

"_What _look?" I was honestly confused, but Bobby obviously thought I was just being difficult. He bared his teeth at me. I had to laugh, in spite of my annoyance. "_You_ look like a baboon."

"And you look like someone just killed your kitten."

"What kitten?"

"Shut up, Jack. Tell me what the hell you're being such a pain in the ass about."

I sighed. "Do I have to spell it out for you? I want my three dollars back."

"Yeah, okay," Bobby said sarcastically. "Hang on, let me get my wallet and I'll be all over that. Would you like it in quarters or one-dollar bills?"

"When you steal shit, and get called on it, you pay it back," I reminded him.

"I don't play by your rules."

"They were _Mom's_ rules."

"Yeah, and _Mom_ wanted you to quit."

"God." I shook my head. "Let it go. I don't want to quit, and I don't know what gives you the right to force me against my will."

He released a theatrical, long-suffering sigh. "I thought we established this already. You're quitting. We had an agreement, Jack."

"No, Bobby. You asked me to quit, and when I resisted, you took my cigarettes from me. Twice. That does not an agreement make."

"Goddamn, Jack, will you at least quit being a dickhead?"

"Give me one good reason to quit smoking."

"You want reasons?" Bobby rolled his eyes. "Fine. I got reasons comin' out my ears, Jackie. For one, you're nineteen."

"The legal age to purchase cigarettes is eighteen, genius."

"You're still too young to have such a stupid addiction. It's bad for your health."

"So is drinking, and you have no problem doing that."

"Not every day," Bobby retorted. "Definitely not as often as you smoke. Okay, a third reason: your voice. How are you ever gonna be a famous singer when there are eighty-year-old men who can take deeper breaths than you?"

Angel, who had apparently found our conversation more interesting than the news, had to throw his two cents in. "We all know he can't sing anyway."

"Shut up, Angel," I returned reflexively, then turned my attention back to my oldest brother. "Those aren't good enough reasons to go through all the shit that comes with quitting, Bobby. I can't do it just like that." I snapped my fingers. "Poof! I'm cured! Oh, thank God, it's a miracle! Alert the press!"

"Give me a break, Jack. You know people quit everyday."

"Yeah, but gradually. Not all at once. I need a game plan. Give me time to prepare. Withdrawal's a bitch, man. You'll have to give me a better reason to force me to drop smoking today."

"Okay, fine: Mom. Can you _think_ of a better reason, Jack?"

"Mom is gone, Bobby."

He cuffed me upside the head. "Don't be a dick."

"Well, she is! She would want me to cope with this as best I could, Bobby, and you have to admit, there are worse ways of dealing with this than smoking cigarettes."

"Do I have those to look forward to next, Jack?"

"For God's sake, Bobby. You call me 'fairy,' but you're a fuckin' drama queen. It's just cigarettes. It's no big deal. Who cares?"

Bobby put his hands on his hips. "_I _care."

I snorted. "You look like Sofi."

"Shut up, Jack. I'm not kidding around here. I care. Mom cared. If it's no big deal, then quit."

"I could if I wanted to."

"So do it."

"I don't want to right now. Ask me in a few weeks, after all this shit has settled down. Not having her around hurts, Bobby. I know you hurt too, so just bear with me. Let me get through this first. I'll try to quit after it stops feeling so..." I paused, then was forced to speak around the lump that had risen in my throat. "So _raw_."

"It may always hurt, Jackie." His voice was softer, but his stare was still hard. "It may never go away, because Mom's not coming back. She's gone, and you know we'll keep missing her. So do it now, while your promise is still fresh and I haven't strangled you."

"I'm not quitting now. I need to be able to smoke and relax for the next couple of weeks."

"You _are _going to quit, Jack."

Indignant, I snapped, "Ex_cuse_ me?!"

"I didn't stutter."

"Jesus, Bobby, lay off."

I was surprised when he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, dragging me closer until his face was barely two inches from mine. His brown eyes bored into me. "You owe her this. After all that she did for you, this is the _least_ you can do for her."

"Bobby, come on."

"She took you in off the streets, Jack!"

"I was not living on the _streets, _Bobby. I was in group homes. You fuckin' know that."

Bobby snorted. "We _both _fuckin' know you'd rather have been on the streets."

I had to admit, if only to myself, that he was right. At least on the streets I could have fought back against my attackers with as much brute force as was necessary without consequences. Still, I wasn't about to give in so easily. "Don't exaggerate."

"Listen, you little shit," he hissed, "I never told you this, but Mom and I had a talk on the phone one day about you."

"About me?" I asked. "What about me?"

"Your stupid smoking habit, dumbass, what else? You know how she worried about you."

"Actually..." I began, but Bobby cut me off.

"She worried," he stated matter-of-factly. "Trust me, she worried. She worried big-time. She wanted you to quit long before you promised her. She didn't like that you were smoking, because she was always afraid it would lead to other things." He paused. "Other substances. Other drugs. Whatever other stupid bullshit you fairies can get into."

"Bobby, you know I―"

"Jack." His tone held an unmistakable warning. I shut up immediately; I knew better than to ignore Bobby when he adopted a Tone. He continued, "She loved you so much, Jack, and didn't like to see you puffing your way to an early grave."

When he put it like that, a pang of guilt shot through me. You know, I have done a lot of things in my life that I'm not proud of, but I swear, I've never felt more ashamed.

My brother barreled on. "She never gave up on us. She never gave up on you." He took a deep breath. "And fuck if I will, either. I'm not gonna give up on you, but you have to help me out here and try. If you won't do this for me, do it for her."

I sighed, hanging my head. "Okay, fine. I'll _try _to quit."

"Okay, fine," Bobby echoed. He either didn't really care that I'd relented, or hid his relief well. "One less thing to beat you up over."

_I know you're worth it, Mom_, I thought to myself, _but this is going to suck. _I kind of wanted a cigarette already, and I wasn't even sixty seconds into the horror that surely awaited me.


	4. Cold Turkey

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill. The brothers aren't mine. No suing.

**Author's Note**: All right. We're halfway to the end! And just for the record, I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, so I have no idea what withdrawal would really be like. I'm just kind of guessing. Hope it's effective. Thank you a hundredfold to my gorgeous reviewers. You are the best. :)

* * *

I'll let you in on a little secret, kids. My contribution to society. _Philosophy According to Jack Mercer_. Cold turkey's only pleasant the day after Thanksgiving. When it comes to breaking a nicotine addiction, it's a bitch of the worst variety. 

After forty-eight hours without so much as a drag from a cigarette, I was ready to give up. Actually, that's a lie. I'd been ready to give up two hours into this cold turkey approach.

Nicotine withdrawal isn't really a pleasant experience. Definitely not something a sane man would voluntarily bring upon himself. But then, no one ever has been stupid enough to label me "sane."

Still, I don't recommend the cold turkey method. Sure, it sounds admirable. A sudden withdrawal. So noble. Instant detox. Yeah, right. Trust me, if you believe that, you're an idiot.

Between the constant pounding of my head and the way I couldn't seem to stop vibrating, it really was a nightmare. I couldn't sit still, and yet I had no energy to do anything. I alternated between wanting cigarettes and wanting to beat the stuffing out of my oldest brother, who I blamed whole-heartedly for my suffering.

As a means of self-preservation and to avoid turning my entire family against me, I had holed myself up in my room and was furiously working on my music. Anything to get my mind off smoking. It was barely working, though, and I was bordering on insanity.

It was about five o'clock in the evening when my peaceful reclusion was interrupted. "JACK!" Bobby thundered from the bottom of the stairs. "JACK!" I didn't say anything for a minute, and this time he had obviously climbed to the _top_ of the stairs, because this repetition of my name nearly deafened me. _"JACK!"_

I knew he wouldn't stop until I answered, and it wasn't doing much for my throbbing head, so I got up off my bed, still clutching my guitar, and threw open my door. "WHAT?" I yelled back, about to march forward but stopping short with a squeak, a little surprised to find myself practically face-to-face with him.

Bobby didn't even blink. "Does it suck yet?"

"What." My tone was totally bored.

"The withdrawal, idiot."

"No, Bobby, it's like the biggest orgasm in the world."

"As if you'd know," he said. "Look, just wanted to see if you wanted some coffee or something."

"Gee, Bobby, thanks." I lifted my right hand to his eye level, arching a brow. Bobby smirked a little as he noticed how it trembled. I punched him in the shoulder before letting my hand fall, but Bobby didn't seem to care. "Yeah. Coffee. Get some caffeine in me. I'm sure that'll do wonders for my shakiness."

He pretended to be hurt. "Man, I'm just trying to help."

"Don't bother. You're the one who got me into this mess. I should have weaned myself off smoking little by little, you know. This cold turkey bullshit is the devil."

"You promis―"

"Yes!" I cut in. "I know! I promised Mom! God, Bobby, will you stop reminding me? You're like the world's most annoying broken record!"

"It'll get better," Bobby assured me with a shrug. "I swear it will. In the meantime, stop being such an asshole. We all kind of hate you right now."

For a minute, I entertained a fantasy of smashing my guitar into his head. He's lucky indeed that I love my instrument so much, or I might have fulfilled it. I was sorely tempted, but I settled instead for saying, "I'm not your biggest fan either."

"Whatever. Quit jackin' off in your room and come downstairs, would you?"

"Fine," I relented with a sigh, going back into my room and placing my guitar in its case.

"Your stupid guitar will be fine," my brother informed me from the doorway. "Could use a little fresh air, if you ask me."

"Shut up, Bobby," I said as I closed the case and latched it securely. I left it on the bed and followed him downstairs.

Family time and withdrawal. I had a feeling the two wouldn't mix well.

As it turns out, I was right.

I was so miserable from wanting a cigarette that I didn't seem to have a single nice thing to say, and Angel and Jerry looked ready to jump me. They were tiring of my attitude much faster than Bobby, who seemed amused by it. I wasn't sure which annoyed me more. Actually, it might be better to say what annoyed me most, because everything seemed to be pissing me off.

Jerry was cooking dinner for us tonight. I should have been relieved to be off kitchen duty for once, but I was too busy trying to remember if I'd hidden any cigarettes somewhere in the house. Normally, I'd keep a secret stash, but either I didn't have one this time, or I'd forgotten the location. Either way, it was irritating.

Ironically, after Bobby's insistence that I come down and complete the brotherly foursome, he spent about fifteen minutes in the kitchen reading the recipe out loud for Jerry and making snide remarks at Sofi, then retired into the living room and turned on the T.V.

Angel was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, Sofi on his lap, and they wouldn't stop whispering and nuzzling. I was doing everything I could to ignore them, and consequently was getting a little mad at Jerry for not even bothering to attempt conversation as he peeled potatoes nearby. So I made a few disgusted faces (which went unnoticed by the lovebirds but earned me a consolatory smirk from Jerry) from my seat on top of the kitchen table and tried to distract myself by listening to Bobby's play-by-play of the hockey game that was on, but soon couldn't stand it anymore. So I retreated into a sulking trance.

About thirty seconds went by before the image of a cigarette popped into my mind. It was perfect. All slender and white and...perfect. It beckoned to me. The craving came over me so fast, it left me reeling. I swear I _tasted_ it. I _smelled _it. I heard myself release a deep, drawn-out sigh of longing, but no one commented. What I wouldn't give―

"Quit." Angel's voice startled me out of my daze.

Startled, I opened my eyes, finding him staring at me with a look that indicated he was about to smack me. Undeterred, I curled my upper lip at him. "Well, look who came up for air."

"Quit," he repeated.

I was genuinely confused. "Quit what?"

"Tapping your feet. It's fucking annoying."

"Oh," I replied lamely, suddenly aware that I was doing so. Stupid nervous habit. "Sorry. Didn't realize." I glared down at my worn-out red sneakers, hoping, I guess, to intimidate the shoes into knocking off the twitching. They apparently weren't easily frightened and merrily continued to drum away, even after I narrowed my eyes threateningly at them. Finally, I resorted to pressing my knees together and leaning on them with my elbows, balancing precariously on the edge of the table. I lowered my head, staring glumly at the floor as I lapsed into silence again.

Out of my peripheral vision,I saw Sofi pick her purse up off the floor and retrieve a slender tube. I rolled my eyes as she uncapped it. Lipstick. Great. The last thing she needed was more lipstick. Oblivious to my mental groaning, she applied it carefully, then pursed her reddened lips at Angel, who purred appreciatively. Disgusted, I made a face at Jerry, who chuckled understandingly as he stirred in a half-cup of some brown (and might I add, somewhat chunky) liquid that I'm pretty sure I'm better off not being able to identify.

Then came the magic words. "Want some gum?" Startled, I looked up at Sofi, who sported an inquiring but inviting expression.

This marked the first moment I didn't hate her. "That'd be great," I said with a little forced bravado, but I offered her what I hoped was a kind smile to make up for it.

She rifled through the contents for a minute, then pulled out a pack of Big Red. Delighted, I accepted the whole thing. Anything to keep my mouth busy. She didn't complain that I had gotten greedy. I'm sure she was just glad that I'd shut up for awhile.

Seventeen sticks later, my withdrawal had not improved. Neither had my attitude.

Jerry groaned after I made a particularly smart-ass comment about his magenta sweater. He'd finally had enough. "Okay, Jackie, tomorrow you're trying the nicotine gum. This cold turkey thing is making us as miserable as you."

"Oh, yeah?" I challenged.

Everyone in the house sounded equally frustrated as they chorused, "Yeah!"

All right. The people have spoken. Starting tomorrow, nicotine gum it is. Majority rules around the Mercer house.

* * *

**_ To be continued..._**


	5. Chewing Things Over

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill. The brothers aren't mine. No suing.

**Author's Note**: At long last. Sorry for the delay; I'm sure you guys were just waiting on pins and needles. ;) Yeah, right. Anyway, I know it's a little on the short side, but I had to break a longer chapter into two parts because it didn't make sense with the setting change. I hope this is more effective. Thanks as always to my reviewers. This may be my last update for another week or more (finals are consuming my life), so enjoy!

_**EDITED** - Did a little more research and figured out that the math on the gum-chewing didn't add up, so I fixed it, hopefully. Made it a bit more believable (if you bear in mind that Jack is kind of stupid and doesn't always do the wisest things) that he could go through a 40-pack in one day and live to tell about it. Have a little faith. :) Hope this answers any questions you might have._

* * *

Less than halfway through the third day of my cigarette-quitting attempt, I was sure I was about to die. I was actually kind of hoping for it. That's about when Bobby came home after playing a few games of hockey at the park and gave me the sweetest smile he could manage. Not in the mood for this, I just stared at him.

Then I saw what he was holding. My spirits lifted immediately. Bobby was carrying my saving grace: a pack of Nicorette. As promised. Thank God. I accepted the lovely gift with more graciousness than I'm normally known to possess, quickly tearing into it and stuffing two pieces into my mouth for good measure.

I had the feeling Bobby hadn't done this so much out of the kindness of his heart as to end my reign of terror during the cold turkey period, but I frankly didn't give a damn. I was simply thrilled to have nicotine again. "Thanks, asshole," I said, trying to appear less thrilled than I was.

"Thank yourself. I swiped the money from your dresser. I can't take you anymore. Anything to shut you up."

I had to wonder how much of a monster I'd have to be before he'd give in and buy me cigarettes, but I didn't dare ask. Instead, I inquired, "How much was it?"

"Thirty-five."

"Thirty-five?!" I echoed, shocked. "As in thirty-five _dollars?!"_

Bobby snorted. "No, idiot, thirty-five sexual favors.

I resisted the urge to point out that I honestly couldn't bring myself to put it past my brother to do that very thing. There were more serious concerns to tackle first. "You took _thirty-five dollars_ from me and bought some stupid _gum?_"

"Money well spent. Think how good the gum tastes," he insisted sarcastically.

"Trident's about thirty-four dollars cheaper and probably tastes better."

"Trident doesn't have nicotine," Bobby pointed out. "And Trident doesn't counteract your stupidity or make me want to punch you less." That being said, he walked upstairs to change out of his sweaty hockey-playing clothes.

I chewed thoughtfully for the better part of an hour, and then had another two pieces, but quickly realized this Nicorette crap didn't make _me_ want to punch _everyone else_ less. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I still was craving cigarettes. The stupid gum barely lessened the desire.

Even after having a couple pieces every hour for ten more hours, I was still wanting to smoke. Big time. Every minute. All day. Especially after dinner. My after-meals smoke was the best dessert I could imagine, and I missed it terribly.

To combat this, I had just popped another two pieces in my mouth and was chewing like it was going out of style when Angel sauntered into the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers. I made a show of looking away and grimacing. "Put some clothes on, for God's sake." Okay, so it wasn't the most conventional greeting, but it was all I could come up with through the pains of separation anxiety.

"Gum today?" Angel asked, apparently unfazed by my rude salutation.

"Nah, just felt like chewing on my tongue. Thought it'd be a different culinary experience." I rolled my eyes. "Are you _always_ so fucking astute, Angel?"

He frowned. "I don't like you when you haven't had enough nicotine."

"Well, I don't really like you, period," I informed him.

Angel didn't reply. He opened the fridge and pulled out a beer, eying me as he opened the can. I watched him steadily until he shifted uneasily, then sighed and left the room.

A little irritated because I didn't have anyone _else _to irritate now, I sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh, dropping the pack onto it and staring at it glumly. The gum just wasn't doing it. I wanted a cigarette. It appeared that all the Nicorette in the world wouldn't even put a dent in my cravings.

When the piece I was currently dealing with lost its intensity, I spat it into the drain of the kitchen sink and glared at the box. Suddenly, I wondered what the limits were. Turning the box over in my hand, I read that you could take as many as two per hour, for the first week. That triggered the genius (read: idiotic) thought that I could probably get away with more, seeing as this was my first day and I was so miserable.

So I then proceeded to do something pretty damn stupid. Wouldn't be the first time, but wow, this might be in the top-ten of bad moves on my part. I dove into the pack with absolute fervor and extracted a handful of pieces. Fourteen, to be exact. I knew this was probably a mistake, but I fit each one into my mouth, let them sit for a minute, then chewed experimentally. It tasted awful, but I kept at it, hoping that this might silence the voice in my head screaming for me to steal some money back from Bobby and buy a pack of cigarettes. It was rather difficult to chew around so much gum, and I probably looked ridiculous, but I was determined and didn't really care that I likely resembled a frustrated bull. My jaw began to hurt after about five minutes of rapid chewing efforts, but only just before the weird sensation of the room spinning hit me. And I do mean _weird_. It was like the world was tilting and I was glued to my chair, helpless against the rocking motions. I closed my eyes and kept chewing, praying that this was just some temporary side effect of the massive quantity of nicotine, but when I opened my eyes and everything had a halo around it, I knew this could quickly go from bad to worse. I got up with a groan, swaying more than Bobby might after downing a twelve-pack, and grabbed onto the chair to steady myself as I waited for the house to stop moving.

Finally, when everything seemed still, I made my way over to the trash can beneath the window and sighed as I opened it and glared inside at the hapless garbage within. Seems I'd have to get rid of my mouthful of very expensive gum. I didn't want to, but there was a distinctly shrill screech echoing in my ears, and I was just starting to shudder pretty heavily, so I knew it had to be done. I took the gum out with my fingers, pouting as I stared at it. Such a waste of money and good nicotine. Then, before I could change my mind, I dropped it in and shut the lid. Not worth it to have a heart attack at nineteen over a stupid pack of gum.

After fifteen minutes or so, I figured everything was all right. It seemed the room had become satisfied with being still, and my body was back to normal. My vision had improved, and I wasn't trembling. So I deemed it appropriate to go after another piece.

Even the dangerous move of having fourteen pieces at once hadn't really dulled the sharp edge of my cravings, and I was growing tired of the taste of the gum. Still, it was all I had. I picked up the box, gave it a shake, and realized it was empty. With a grunt of disapproval, I crumpled the box in my hand.

"Out?" Jerry asked as he came into the kitchen. You know, I love my brother, I really do, but sometimes he comes up with the dumbest things to say.

"What was your first clue?" I returned.

Jerry ignored my sarcasm. "Want me to drive you to the store? I'll buy you another pack."

"In return for what from me?" I asked warily. Favors around here never came without a price.

"A blow-job," Bobby replied casually from the living room.

I opened my mouth to toss something scathing back in the general direction of my eldest brother, but Jerry beat me to it. "Fuck, Bobby, that's disgusting!" he exclaimed.

"I know," Bobby agreed. "Who knows where that mouth of his has been."

When Jerry said nothing in my defense, I stepped up. "Yeah, who knows how many STDs I got from your girlfriend the other night," I bit back in that juvenile way that doesn't really ever seem to get the point across, then cleared my throat and spoke again to Jerry. "Short of _that_, what do you want in return, Jer?"

Jerry shrugged. "This isn't about keeping score. I swear, Jack, I'll do just about anything to get you to stop being such a prick."

"I think it'll take more than nicotine-laced gum to do that," Bobby announced cheerfully. He clearly had not been deterred from interrupting our conversation.

In perfect unison, Jerry and I yelled, "Shut UP, Bobby."

I know Bobby was in there mimicking us, but at least he didn't do so loud enough that we could hear him. Satisfied, Jerry and I walked into the hall and grabbed our coats. He produced his car keys from one of the deep pockets, then we both exited the house and climbed into his minivan. Normally, I'd be tempted to rag him about becoming one of "those" guys, but as it was, that soccer-dad people-carrier was my ticket to more Nicorette. I wasn't about to blow my chances.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	6. Aversion Therapy

**Disclaimer**: Don't own 'em. Don't sue me.

**Author's Note**: Sorry again for the delay. Between finals and throwing my back out last week, I haven't had much time to write. Still, better late than never, I guess. Enjoy!

* * *

The drive to the grocery store took longer than usual (we avoided the one Mom had been gunned down in, obviously, and the only other one we knew of was quite a bit farther away), so Jerry and I chatted idly about his kids. I pretend that it annoys me when he babbles on and on about Daniela and Amelia, but there are no two kids I love more in the world, and he knows it. Still, even I was surprised when I was the first to bring the girls up in conversation. 

As I adjusted the seat to better fit my height as opposed to Camille's, I asked casually, "Did you end up going to Amelia's school the other day?"

Jerry turned down the radio, as if unsure that he had heard me correctly. "For what?"

"I don't know. Bobby was bitching about how you canceled a hockey match because you had to go to her school for something."

"Oh, right. Tuesday. It was Career Day. I had to go in and impress the kids."

"Did you tell them about your loft project, or whatever?"

"Yeah."

"I still say you should turn it into a garage. It'd be a shame to see that building go to waste housing a bunch of rich old people."

"The money's in real estate, not cars." When I didn't argue, he switched topics. "You know, Jack, Amelia would love it if you'd come in sometime and play your guitar for her music class. She's always saying that the little hand-drums and tambourines get pretty boring."

I hid a grin. "I don't know if I can play anything kid-friendly. Been awhile since I did a run-through of 'Old MacDonald,' you know."

"Just strum some chords or something. They'd be delighted. Kids are too stupid to realize that you suck."

"I'll see what I can do," I said, trying very hard to not sound as flattered as I felt about the proposition. "Kids really aren't my thing." Jerry snorted his agreement even though we both knew it was a crock of shit; I love kids. "I'd probably get thrown out of the school before I could even get to the band room, anyway." That part was completely true.

"Good point. I'll talk to the music teacher."

"Angel may have to come along with me and be my bodyguard against the faculty."

Jerry laughed. "I'll talk to Angel too," he said.

A few minutes of companionable silence followed as Jerry waited at a stoplight, then I decided to ask after his other daughter. "So," I said, staring out the window and trying not to sigh as I noticed a few kids standing around and smoking on a street corner, "how are Daniela's piano lessons coming?"

If my brother was surprised that I brought Daniela up as well, he was too distracted by the light turning green, and consequently having to watch for red-light violators before pulling into the intersection, to show it. His eyes never left the road as he replied, "Better. She still hates going, but I think it's just because Ms. Newton is so intimidating."

"Ms. Newton?!" I shook my head to dispel the shock of learning that my brother's daughter was taking lessons from the same woman who'd tried to teach _me _piano so many years ago. "That woman must be a million years old. Fucking scared me half to death, and always smelled like mothballs." I shuddered. "Poor Daniela."

"Don't be an ass. Ms. Newton's a good piano teacher." When I just snorted in response, he insisted, "She is. She's just..."

"A frigid bitch?" I supplied when my brother couldn't seem to think of the right term to use.

Jerry glanced away from the road long enough to give me a look. "Eccentric."

When I could think of nothing to say that wasn't a direct insult to the eccentric old woman in question, I simply said, "Remember when I had to take lessons from her? Mom thought it'd be good for me. Said it'd give me some outlet for my emotions, or some other such crap. She bought that shitty old piano and insisted that I practice two hours a day to relieve stress."

"Can't imagine how much stress you were under at the time. You skipped school most days."

"I lived with Bobby," I pointed out. "That's stressful enough."

Jerry had to murmur his agreement as he slowed down and glared at some jaywalking pedestrians. After rolling down his window and yelling at them that they were about to get themselves killed, he informed me, "It might have relieved _your_ stress, but man, Cracker Jack, listening to you practicing for two hours every afternoon was stressin' the rest of us out like you wouldn't believe." He laughed. "I remember Bobby threatening to break all ten of your fingers if you played 'Chopsticks' one more time, and Mom having to sell the piano to the lady down the street to keep him from doing just that."

"I guess I thought if I played that enough and drove everyone in the house crazy, Mom would let me take guitar lessons instead," I said with a smirk. "Or, at the very least, Bobby would kill me and I wouldn't have to go to lessons anymore."

"I remember how annoyed she was that she had to sell the piano. What made her give in and get you that first crappy guitar, anyway?"

"I kept reminding her that guitars are much quieter to practice."

"Not in your hands, they're not."

"Oh, shut up, Jerry," I said without any real heat. "I didn't even have an amp until I turned sixteen, and by then, you were already out of the house."

"Thank God for small favors," he muttered, ignoring me as I punched him lightly in the shoulder.

"I'm better at the guitar than I ever was at the piano. Mom was glad in the end. She got her money's worth, anyway. Got herself a rock star for a son." _Well, for awhile, anyway. _I tried to ignore the pang of sadness at the thought, a little irritated to feel tears stinging my eyelids. I turned my head to look out the window, pretending something was totally fascinating as I wiped at my eyes. If Jerry noticed, he didn't let on.

I was relieved when he spoke up and distracted me. "Speaking of which, how's the music scene these days?" Jerry always asks me about my music. He's often the only one of my brothers who doesn't laugh at me for it; I guess because he has a dream of his own. I'm grateful to him for that, at least.

Trying to pretend that I wasn't totally delighted to have been asked, I replied casually, "Same as always."

"I keep trying to convince Camille that we should take a trip to New York. She'd love to go see an opera, and we could take the girls to Central Park. Go to the Met, or the Empire State Building, or somethin'. It'd be a nice getaway. We could use a vacation. Maybe if I wear her down, we could visit you. I'd like to see your band play sometime."

"Don't bring the girls to a show," I warned him. God, that would be tragic. My stuff is definitely not suitable for kids and I would feel horrible if Daniela and Amelia learned some choice phrases at a gig. Jerry chuckled and assured me he wouldn't. "And it's no big deal, really," I added. "I wouldn't go to any trouble if I were you. New York kind of sucks, and my band's nothing special." Jerry knows me well enough to interpret that as Jack-speak for, _"I'd love to have you there. It'd mean so much to me."_

"Yeah, you're probably right. I'd like to at least get a chance to boo you off the stage, though." I know Jerry well enough to interpret _that _as Jerry-speak for, _"I'm coming anyway, because you're my little brother and I know you're talented."_

"I'd like to watch you get mauled in the mosh pit. You'd probably be standing there, all bloodied and bruised, yelling at some punk for causing your shirt to come untucked."

Jerry swatted at me, but missed because he was busy pulling into the parking lot. We'd arrived. I was so anxious to get to my gum that I almost opened the door and jumped out before the van had even stopped moving.

As we got out of the van, Jerry reached into his pocket and produced quite a long list. I raised a brow at him. "What'cha got there, Santa?"

"Camille asked me to pick a few things up. Figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. I don't want to go home empty-handed and have her mad at me."

"And Bobby wonders why I don't have a girlfriend."

"Just go get your gum," Jerry replied irritably.

I gave him a quick one-armed hug to repent. "You know I love your family, man."

He rolled his eyes, but smiled a bit. We crossed the parking lot and walked into the store, glancing around with a determined expression on both our faces. We were men on a mission now. With a nod to each other, we then quickly split up, going to get our respective necessities.

After I had found the desired aisle in the pharmacy section and selected the gum I found most appealing, Jerry wandered up to me carrying a basket. I glanced down and took a quick inventory, looking for something to make a smart-ass comment about. Old habits die hard. Aspirin, saline solution, AA batteries, cotton balls, sunscreen, a pack of disposal razors, mouthwash, light pink nail polish (which I dearly hope was for his wife Camille, but with the Mercers, you never know), and Vaseline.

I considered lending voice to the crude remark that popped into my head upon seeing the last product (Bobby would definitely have to grudgingly appreciate it, as he makes plenty of jokes in that vein about _me_), but then thought better of it and settled instead for latching onto the nail polish. It had plenty of potential itself.

I reached in and picked it up. "You know, Jer," I said blithely, "you'd look better in something a little more red. As opposed to..." I turned the bottle over in my hand as I searched for the proper name for this particular shade. Laughter bubbled out of me as soon as I found it. "Frolic!" I managed to shriek between fits of hysteria. "The color is called _Frolic!"_

Jerry, for his part, pretended he didn't even hear me. He simply asked, "Find your gum?"

Swallowing my giggles, I got a grip on myself and nodded, returning the nail polish to his basket and holding up the package in my other hand. "Thought I'd try Fruit Chill this time."

I swear Jerry appeared to struggle with the desire to deliver an off-colored joke of his own, but to his credit, he restrained himself. The only thing he said was, "Hope it works."

For some reason, I felt the need to explain my flavor switch, although I suspected Jerry didn't care one way or the other. Or maybe it was to give Jerry one more chance to run his mouth and slap me with a slur so I could finally tell him what I thought of his Vaseline purchase. "Fruity sounds better." I paused for a moment to let this sink in, then elaborated, "The mint reminded me too much of the dentist. Fruity seems more suited for me, don't you think, Jer?"

Jerry didn't take the bait, so I shrugged and took the basket from him ―in the mood to be charitable, I guess― and lead the way to the counter. He paid for his purchases and my gum, and as the clerk was counting out the change into his palm, he broke the silence. "Have you ever thought of trying aversion therapy?"

I tossed him a skeptical look. "Aversion therapy?"

He pocketed the money. "Yeah."

"What the hell is aversion therapy?"

Jerry pointed to the packs of cigarettes in their neat rows on the shelves behind the counter. "Want one? My treat." I narrowed my eyes at him, immediately suspicious, but he pressed on. "No, really. I won't tell Bobby or Angel. I know how hard this quitting thing is."

Finally! Someone who understands what I'm going through! Relieved beyond measure, I nodded gratefully at him. "Sure."

Jerry reached out and smacked the back of my head. Hard.

My mouth dropped open. I swear I heard my jaw hit the counter. I was too startled to even retaliate. "What the hell?!" I squeaked. "What was _that?!"_

The asshole had the nerve to smirk. "Aversion therapy."

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	7. Sticky Situations

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine. Still no grounds for a lawsuit. Sorry.**  
**

**Author's Note**: Again, I apologize for the profanity. To me, it just keeps things truer to the movie (however, that is not to say that avoiding it altogether detracts from the believability of a piece of fanfiction) and I hope it doesn't offend anyone. Sorry for the delay in updating; I've had some personal drama in my life and have just started a new job and all that...anyway, I managed to crank this out somehow, so yeah. Also, we're about done, guys! I'm debating on whether or not to do a couple more chapters...not sure how much more I could squeeze out of this premise. We'll see. I have one more chapter written (the concluding one), but I'll figure out if I want to insert a few other ideas I've had before posting that final one. In any case, enjoy! This is the longest chapter of this story yet! Yay! ;)

* * *

Okay. Bottom line: Nicorette can kiss my ass. 

I tried. I really did. By the third day, however, I was torn between attempting the fourteen-pieces-at-once act of stupidity again or tearing my hair out.

So I decided to throw the rest of the gum away.

Bobby, who always seems to have impeccable timing, strode into the kitchen right as I was tossing the half-empty pack into the trash can.

"What are you doing?!" he exclaimed.

"This stuff isn't working," I told him with a shrug.

He shot me a look of frustrated disbelief. "You have half a pack left and you're throwing it away? God, Jack, I knew you were an idiot, but...c'mon, man. Don't waste Jerry's money like that."

"I'll give Jerry...whatever the fuck half of $35 is," I told him, in no mood for mental math.

"Seventeen and a half," Bobby said.

"Whatever. Fine. I'll give him eighteen and make it even. I don't really care. This shit is useless."

"It'll help eventually. You haven't even given it a week yet, Jack."

"My jaw hurts," I said. "Try chewing gum all day long for three days and you'll see why I'm sick of it."

Bobby folded his arms across his chest, adopting his I'm-the-boss stance. "Finish the pack, fairy. Save yourself the seventeen bucks and fifty cents." With that, he walked into the living room, leaving me to ponder whether it was worth it to dig around in the garbage for that half-pack of gum that wasn't working anyway.

Truthfully, I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of going back to Square One, and cold turkey, all over again, but the gum wasn't doing a damn thing and I was sick of bothering.

My mistake. The cravings came back in full swing about an hour after I pitched the gum, and I quickly wished Angel hadn't remembered it was garbage-collection day and taken the trash out a few minutes prior.

So I was in a particularly foul mood that afternoon, and figured the only thing to do to keep myself properly distracted would be to watch TV.

As I walked into the living room, I noticed that Angel was sacked out on the sofa, the Military Channel (go figure) droning faintly and doing nothing to muffle his snoring.

Not wanting to wake the beast (believe me when I say Angel's returns to the waking world are seldom kind), I crept up, my eyes never leaving his face. His mouth was wide open, and he was snoring so loud I was surprised he could sleep through the racket. Most military men would wake up if a butterfly landed fifteen feet away, but not Angel. He could sleep through a tornado.

I stepped closer, and grimaced as my bare foot touched something damp. Kind of afraid to see what it was, and yet compelled to find out, I glanced down warily. Angel's sock. His sweaty sock. Wrinkling my nose, I gingerly lifted my foot and put it down beside the sock. I looked up again, and my gaze suddenly locked on his mouth. His gaping mouth. I had to fight the urge to laugh. This was gonna be perfect...

Angel was less than thrilled to wake up gagging on moist fabric. I, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier. Ever since he'd flushed my cigarettes, I'd been trying to devise a plan to get even. Revenge really is best served cold. Well, and wet.

He shot me an accusing glare, which I just blinked innocently at. A long pause fell between us, then he growled, "Did Bobby do this?"

I had to fight to keep my mouth from dropping open. He had fallen right for it! I swear it took every ounce of restraint in my body to keep a straight face as I said casually, "Yeah. Fucker came right in and stuffed the sock in your mouth."

"Why didn't you stop him?"

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Could this _go_ any more smoothly? "Uh, well, I didn't really want to get my ass kicked for interfering in Bobby's stupid schemes."

Angel rolled his eyes. "I'll kick his ass later," he muttered. "Wings at War comes on in ten minutes."

"Oh, hell no, I ain't watchin' your military planes shit. You've monopolized the TV all day, Angel." I more or less hopped on top of him, knees-first, and tried to grab at the remote control. "C'mon! Give it!" He put up a decent fight, I'll give him that, but I managed to wrestle the coveted item away from him in less time than I'd expected. He must have still been drowsy from his nap.

He more or less threw me off, and I landed in a cozy little heap, content to remain that way as I enjoyed my remote-time. After flipping through the channels, I realized that VH1 was doing a feature on Janis Joplin, and consequently decided to park my ass on the couch for the next two hours, much to Angel's frustration.

The narrator with the most monotonous voice I'd ever heard in my life was describing Janis's childhood when Bobby strode by on the way upstairs. I seized my opportunity to avoid having to make a needless trip myself and quickly called out, "Hey, will you get my guitar while you're up there?"

Bobby stopped dead in his tracks and gave me a disbelieving look. "What? You can't be bothered to get up off your ass to get your stupid guitar yourself?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I muttered, "you're going upstairs anyway. My room is right next to Mom's."

"I don't know how you're so damn skinny, as much as you are inclined to sit on your ass all the time." Still grumbling, Bobby headed up the stairs. I listened with half an ear to his pounding footsteps, then, satisfied that I'd soon have my instrument to distract me, turned my undivided attention back to the television.

About thirty seconds of blissful silence followed. The biography was just getting around to Janis being found dead in the hotel room in her jammies when a flurry of curses erupted from my room. I suddenly remembered why I should have gone upstairs to get my guitar myself. Shit. Apparently, Bobby had found the cigarettes in the case.

There was a moment of silence, then he thundered, "JACK!"

Angel glanced away from the television long enough to give me a sucks-to-be-_you_ look. I flipped him off as I got up off the sofa.

I walked toward the stairs, feeling a lot like a man headed toward his execution. At this point, that wasn't really far from the truth.

I shuffled in, not meeting his eyes. The window, after all, was so incredibly interesting. "Hey, Bobby," I said lamely, as if nothing in the world was wrong to the best of _my _knowledge.

Bobby didn't say a word to me, just marched over and grabbed me by the neck, putting me in an effortless half-nelson in less than a half-second. I had to admire the flawless execution of the wrestling maneuver, even though it hurt like absolute hell. "You fucking cheater!" he snarled.

"It's not what it looks like, Bobby," I protested, struggling uselessly against his hold.

"Oh, really? And these are what? Cigarette-shaped cupcakes?"

"No, I mean, they are cigarettes, but_―_"

"Yeah, so I fucking figured."

"But the _situation_ is not what it looks like."

"Oh?" he growled. "Well, what_ is_ the situation, then? 'Cause it _looks _like you're cheating."

"I'm not! Let go of me and I'll fucking explain!"

"You can talk just fine like this. So talk. I'm all ears, kid."

"Look, Bobby, I swear, it's not what you think. Those were in there from New York."

"I smell bullshit," he said, sounding appropriately pissed.

Frustrated, I protested, "Check the expiration date on the pack!" I paused. "Or...well, wait...do cigarettes expire?"

Bobby was suddenly curious himself. He dragged me over to the bed and used his free hand to pick up my pack. He snorted. "Yeah. In three years."

"Wow," I mused, forgetting momentarily how much my neck was hurting.

Bobby snapped back to the current situation a little faster than me. "So that argument is shot to hell. I don't think I trust you, Jack. I think these were bought here, in _Michigan_, after you _promised me__―_"

"I promised _Mom."_ The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. I knew it was an idiotic move even before Bobby's arm tightened painfully around my neck.

"Shut up, asshole. The point is, you said you'd quit."

"And I have!" I exclaimed, my voice strained from the pressure on my throat. "I'm working on it! God, Bobby, do you know how miserable I've been, tryin' to _keep _that promise?"

"Then why are there cigarettes here?"

"I told you! They're from New York! I brought 'em with me to one of my gigs!"

Bobby's grip loosened a little. "Jack, you'd better not be lying to me."

I shook my head, too tired of this argument to bother.

"Whatever, man. I'll kill you if I find out otherwise."

"I'd like to see you try," I told him. His glare told _me_ that he would like to see me try to stop him.

Practically shoving me out into the hallway, he disappeared for a moment into Mom's room and returned carrying a John Grisham novel. See, Bobby, for all his scary reputation and asshole tendencies, is a closet bookworm. I'd tease him about it, but frankly, I respect that. I know he's kidding with me about my music, but I'm not so sure he wouldn't take my ragging on him for reading all the time personally. God, whatever it takes to keep him out of my hair, anyway, is fine by me.

I plunked down on the couch yet again, guitar in hand, and tried to strum along with Janis and friends. It wasn't hard; for all the fuss people make about her stuff, it really isn't all that challenging for me. It gave me something to do as I waited for the moment when I never wanted a cigarette again.

I heard Bobby lumbering around the kitchen, slamming cabinets and opening and closing the fridge no less than four times. Not sure what he was expecting to be different, but whatever. He finally let out a loud grunt of annoyance and walked back in to give me a look. "I have to get out of here. You and Angel are driving me crazy."

"So go," I said absently, still absorbed in the documentary.

"I am. I need more beer. I'm going to the store."

I forced my attention away from Janis long enough to look at Bobby and say, "Hey, will you get me some of those nicotine patches while you're there?" Bobby opened his mouth to reply, but I knew what he was about to say and pulled out my wallet. "I'll pay for them, dumbass."

"Where the hell do you get all this money? Are you selling crack?"

"What the fuck, Bobby?"

"I know your music ain't any good, so you must be selling drugs or something." His smile told me he was teasing. My glare told him I wasn't amused.

"Just get me the patches, okay? I guarantee it'll lower my asshole level."

That seemed to be the deciding factor, and Bobby took the money from me and headed out.

---

Janis's career was at its peak before Bobby returned. Much to my surprise, he'd not forgotten the patches in lieu of the beer-run original intent. Well, he had plenty of beer, of course, but that's not what I was interested in for once. I just wanted the little sticky squares of nicotine.

I got up and grabbed the box of patches from him as he mused with a touch of remorse, "Wish you were shorter than me. I'd have fun playing keep-away."

"Stunted asshole," I answered absently, too busy reading the instructions to really put any force behind the sentiment. It seemed simple enough. Stick 'em on, baby, and cravings are kicked. Supposedly. The gum had the same premise, and I realized about two pieces in that it was a load of shit.

In any case, it was worth trying. These patches hadn't been cheap, either.

Bobby followed me upstairs to the bathroom. He dropped trou and started taking a leak before I had even decided where to put the first patch. By the time he flushed, I had concluded that my back would be best.

"Time to medicate myself." My voice was muffled a bit as I pulled my shirt over my head, but I kept talking anyway. "Today's a two-patch day."

"Why?"

"It just is," I replied in my best don't-question-my-motives tone as I turned and presented my back to him. "Now, help."

"Where do you want it?"

I shrugged as I blew my bangs out of my face and positioned the first patch on my bicep, pressing gently to ensure good contact. God forbid the thing should fall off. I'm pretty sure I'd explode, or something. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. Just make sure it'll stay."

"Maybe you should put your shirt back on and drop your jeans, fairy. Decorate that girlish ass of yours."

"Bobby," I said irritably, too desperate for my daily dose of nicotine to discuss the more feminine aspects of my figure, "come on. Do you want to hel―OW!" I yelped as I felt his palm connect with the skin on my shoulder. Hard. "Shit!" I muttered angrily as I shot him a sidelong glare over my smarting shoulder. "That was fucking rude!"

Bobby shrugged. "What? I helped." He smiled brightly, the picture of innocence. "You told me to make sure it'd stay." Cute.

I tried to cuff him on the side of the head, but he ducked. "Was it necessary to be so fucking...I don't know...enthusiastic?" I asked.

"Enthusiasm is good for the soul. You could use a little more enthusiasm, you know. Besides, now you know it's on nice and firm. Won't come off."

"Gee, brother, thanks," I snapped sarcastically as I gingerly massaged the skin around the patch, which was still stinging.

"Any time, Jackie." He opened the bathroom door with a flourish that I was sorely tempted to point out was far more flamboyant than anything I'd ever done, but I refrained. If he could swat me that hard when he was in a jovial mood...

I slipped out and tried to ignore him as he pounded down the stairs behind me.

He decided he wanted to be polite and make small talk as we proceeded into the living room. "You know, you could really use a girlfriend. You need to get laid. It'd help."

I sank back down on the couch, happy to have returned. Janis was rasping about the son of a preacher man, but I can't stand that song and so decided to humor Bobby. "I don't want a girlfriend. I want a cigarette." When Bobby shot me a glare, I sighed and added, "Well, unless sex is the secret to quitting smoking, I don't think getting laid would help me right now."

"A boyfriend, then. Whatever."

"I'm not homosexual," I said. "I'm not heterosexual either. I'm asexual."

"You reproduce by budding?"

"What, you thought my only talent was making amazing music?"

He rolled his eyes. "You really do live in your own little fucking fantasy world, Jackie."

"Whatever, man, I don't need a girl. Music's enough for me. Besides, Haley is the love of my life," I asserted as I caressed the neck of my guitar.

"You know," Bobby mused, staring at the hole, "if you just snap off those strings, you could—"

I knew what he was getting at. "Don't fucking finish that sentence," I warned him.

"Just trying to help."

"I don't really need your help," I said, trailing my fingers over the patch on my shoulder. "I need Nicoderm CQ's help."

Bobby laughed. "That's the least of the help you need, Jackie-boy."

* * *

**_To be continued..._**

* * *


	8. Poking Fun

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine. Still no grounds for a lawsuit. Sorry.**  
**

**Author's Note**: So I have figured there will be three more chapters, including this one, for a grand total of ten. A nice even number. Hope this is sufficient. ;) My thanks, as always, to my reviewers, especially **Shanobi, Whilom, **and** HaloFin17**, who never fail to make me smile. This chapter is in fact dedicated to **Halo**, who spotted my nod to her in the last chapter (yes, I named Jack's guitar after her, haha) and couldn't stop beaming about it. Can't slip a thing past that girl. :)

* * *

So the patches are about as useful as the gum. Not even a little fucking bit. I gave them two days, then pitched them. They'll likely join up with the discarded pack of gum in some landfill and laugh conspiratorially about my failure. 

Realizing that I was rapidly running out of options, I turned to the one resource I hadn't bothered with yet: the Internet.

I'm not really a computer wizard, but Jerry loves them to pieces and insisted that I try looking up my options online. To make this a little easier, as we Mercers are incapable of owning any expensive stuff, he'd left his laptop at the house and told me to return it (in perfect condition, or else) when I was finished with it. It was a nice gesture, but to be honest, I hated having it. I could just imagine Bobby and Angel getting into a sword-fight with hockey sticks and destroying it. Well, in any case, it was here, and I intended to use it.

Before embarking on my quest through the World Wide Web, I checked my email to find a really pissed-off message from my band's drummer, bitching about some hot girl who wouldn't go home with him because she wanted "that singer guy with the tongue ring." I mentally filed that away. "Wait 'till Bobby gets wind of that," I muttered to myself as I typed in the address for Google and proceeded to do a search for quit-smoking treatments. "So much for his queer little brother."

As the search engine spat out a bunch of links, I growled at any results that included the gum, the patches, or the words "cold turkey" or "aversion therapy."

After a few minutes of browsing, I found a page on a procedure called "auricular therapy" which is commonly used to treat nicotine addiction. I hadn't gotten very far down the page when I heard Bobby come in. I ignored him, far too busy reading to chat. Maybe he'd get the message and leave.

Yeah, right. Bobby's never been particularly good at interpreting subtleties. Rather than leaving, he padded up right behind me and leaned down over my shoulder, staring at the computer screen as if he'd been invited to do so and it wasn't a total invasion of my privacy. I felt his presence behind me, his breath at my ear, and immediately stiffened and winced. I cannot stand it when people hover over my shoulder. It reminds me of a man I despised and some things he said, while doing that very thing, that really are best left to the imagination.

Bobby knows I hate it, but that never really seems to stop him. Still, I suspect if he knew _why_, he'd stop. I'll never tell him, though. The only person who knew was Evelyn, and even then I hesitated to tell her because I feared that she might judge me (stupid, I know, but I was just a kid then and now I know she didn't have a judgmental bone in her body) or worse, stop loving me. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bobby will never judge me, and sure as hell will never stop loving me, but I still will never reveal that part of my history. He takes such pleasure in kidding around with me, after all, and I know he does it out of a love for me that no other can match. If I tell him the truth, the teasing might stop, and then he'll no longer be Bobby.

In any case, there Bobby was, reading over my shoulder and snorting in what I determined to be disbelief. "That's not porn," he remarked, almost accusingly. I gave him a strange look, not really sure why he automatically expected to see naked people on the screen. "What the hell else is the Internet for?" he inquired.

"Research."

"Research?"

"Research," I repeated.

"Okay, Jack, I know you're weird and all, but since when do you _research_ shit for fun?"

"It's not for fun."

"Then _why?_"

"I'm researching auricular therapy." Bobby's eyes glazed over at the four-syllable word, and I sighed, then explained with more patience than I usually seem to possess, "It's another thing I plan to try to help me quit smoking."

"Says here it's also a weight-loss therapy," Bobby commented, poking the screen where that particular sentence appeared. I batted his hand away. If anything happened to Jerry's expensive piece of technology, I'd be screwed. "The last thing you need is to lose weight, fairy. It's not that you're fat, it's that your jeans are too goddamn tight."

"My jeans are fine, asshole," I answered absently, my eyes still glued to the monitor.

Bobby resumed reading for a few minutes, then straightened with a sound of disapproval. "This shit is confusing," he complained. "How do you even understand what the hell this thing is, anyway? You aren't the brightest crayon in the box, Jackie. For all you know, fairy, all this is just smart-talk for 'a procedure where someone beats you half to death with a nightstick to end your misery.'" He thought about that for a half-second, then added, "Man, sign me up! I volunteer!"

"I understand it," I told him defensively, but in all honesty, this website might as well have been written in Latin for all the sense it made to me. I'd sooner die than admit that to Bobby, though, so I put on an air of superiority. "Don't you get it, idiot?"

"I'm not the 'idiot' who started giving myself lung cancer at thirteen, Jack, so no, I'm not familiar with this procedure."

"I was fourteen," I corrected him without any illusions that it would help my case.

Bobby ignored me and —apparently determined to grasp the concept behind this treatment— began to read again. He stopped short after about thirty seconds, looking visibly shaken. "Wait! Hold the phone!" he blurted. Perplexed, I glanced up at him, startled to see him gaping at me with eyes the size of hockey pucks. "This procedure, Jack...it's..._acupuncture!"_ I arched a brow at this; the guy cusses like a sailor, but it apparently pained him to spit out 'acupuncture.'

Now, in all honesty, the idea kind of horrifies me too, but I strove for a neutral tone to insinuate that Bobby was totally overreacting. "Yeah...and? It's a Chinese therapy treatment. Really great success rate. They just put the needles into these certain parts of your ear...something about pressure points. It's not a big deal, man." I valiantly suppressed a shudder and fixed Bobby with a puzzled look. Yup. Sure. Needles inserted in the ear. No problem. Totally natural.

"You want some Asian dude to stick needles in your ear, Jack?!" Bobby sounded horrified. "Are you fucking out of your mind?!"

"Do you really want to open up that can of worms?" I asked dryly.

Bobby was neither amused nor deterred. "It's ear-acupuncture!"

"I prefer 'earcupunture,' actually," I mused. "Sounds fancier."

Bobby grimaced and clamped both hands over his ears. "I don't even want to imagine, Jack. You are such a dumbass to even _consider_ this."

"Hey, you're the one who wants me to quit."

"Yeah, by gum or patches or getting the crap kicked out of you. Not stabbing yourself in the ear!"

"Actually, a doctor will do the stabbing."

"Does _that _make any fucking difference?"

"It'll be a trained professional. I already found a guy in the yellow pages, and he's the best in Detroit for this thing. He'll know what he's doing."

"And. He. Will. _Still._ Use. Needles."

"Needles? They use _needles? _No shit! I thought I was going to have _kittens_ lick the inside of my ear!"

"Know what I think, fairy? I think you already tried this, Jack, and poked yourself in the brain one too many times. The_ trained professional,_" here he paused to snort, "would know to stop the needle when there's resistance."

I shrugged. "There's a version that uses electrical stimulation or something," I told him. "It's supposed to be painless, but it's about three times as expensive."

"I don't really think this is the kind of thing you're supposed to bargain-shop for, shithead."

"Well, I can't afford it. That gum and those stupid patches weren't cheap."

"Tell you what," Bobby said. "I'll pay for the electro-whatever treatment if you'll do one thing for me."

I saw my opportunity and pounced. "I'm not gay, Bobby, and even if I was, you're _so _not my type."

"You'd be lucky to have me," he replied. "I'm the best you ever had, baby."

Sensing that this conversation could easily spiral into some really awkward territory and culminate in Bobby becoming seriously convinced that I go for guys, I cleared my throat and asked flatly, "What's the 'one thing,' Bobby?" I immediately regretted my question as a slow smile crept onto his lips. Oh, shit. That's never good. Suddenly, I didn't want to know.

Too late. "You have to let me watch."

"Watch?!" I squeaked. "I have to go in and get electric shocks in my ear, and you want to _watch?!"_

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Jackie."

"You are sick!"

"Hey, it's my money!"

"Come to think of it, I think I'd rather get the needles," I mumbled.

"The more expensive version is painless."

"Not with you watching, it isn't. I'll find a way to pay for it myself. Forget it, Bobby. You are _not _coming with me."

"Detroit has enough hookers, Jackie. I'm the one who made you quit, so I'm paying for this treatment, and I'm coming with you."

"Oh, so _now _you'll use that excuse, but when I say it, it's irrelevant."

Bobby just shrugged.

"Fine. If you want to pay, cough up the ninety bucks and I'll go and you can witness it, weirdo."

"It costs ninety dollars to get some electric shocks in your ear?"

I nodded. "Told you it ain't cheap."

"This had better be the miracle cure, Jack."

"Consider it a bargain. I've heard miracles usually cost over a hundred."

"Who is this miracle doctor, anyway? You said this guy was the best in the business."

"I said he's the best in Detroit, and that ain't sayin' much, but I'll take what I can get. His name's Dr. Chan."

"Make an appointment with this Dr. Chan dude, then. And it'd better not be before noon. I am not getting up at some godforsaken hour to take you to get your ear electrified."

"Whatever," I replied, getting up off the computer. "Here, go look up your porn. I'm going to call Chan."

Bobby happily took my place and I hightailed it out of there, not even wanting to know what websites he had in mind. I called Dr. Chan's office, and his secretary was a polite but completely vapid-sounding woman who told me that two o'clock would work best. I agreed to be there at two, all the while wondering if I wasn't making a huge mistake.

Too late to go back now.

Earcupuncture, here I come.


	9. Earcupunture

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine. No legal action should be necessary...

**Author's Note**: Well, folks, we're nearing the end. Only one more chapter to go after this. I'll be kind of sad to bring this story to a close, as I've had such fun writing it and reading the reactions my dear reviewers have had, but there are only so many treatments out there to quit smoking.

Also, to clear up any confusion, this story takes place over the course of two weeks. I took some author's liberty and slowed down the time between Evelyn's death and the brothers' consequent war-declaration on Detroit, so as to give Jack some time to attempt to quit before they all embark on their path of destruction. I figure if people can give the guys a sister or resurrect Jack, this isn't such a stretch.

* * *

The next day, Bobby and I piled into Sofi's Volkswagen and headed over to Dr. Chan's office. On the way there, Bobby did everything he could to make me panic about what was about to take place inside my ear, and I did everything I could to pretend that it bothered me a lot less than it actually did. 

Fortunately, the ride there was nice and brief. We pulled up in front of a nondescript brick building, and walked through some gleaming glass doors into a lobby that was filled with scenic watercolors and ergonomic furniture. Nothing particularly shocking here, to my eternal relief. I was pretty anxious, however, to get to the actual office and see what kind of dude was going to be electrically stimulating my ear.

I was sort of hoping there'd be all kinds of weird Chinese relics everywhere, and was slightly disappointed when I arrived and noticed that Dr. Chan's office was nothing if not sterile. Clean and white. No bamboo, Zen gardens, Kanji, or koi. It was about as exotic as an examination room in a health clinic.

The doorknob turned, and I spun around, trying to anticipate the doctor that was about to come in and shock the hell out of my ear. Clinging to the stereotypes in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, I was imagining that Dr. Chan would be some Chinese shaman monk with a shaved head, bearing a smoking stick of incense in one hand, a folded fan in the other, and a monkey on one shoulder.

He wasn't. He was a short, scrawny dude with cropped black hair and dark, intelligent eyes. He moved with effortless grace, but didn't really possess the aura of calming mysticism I had been hoping for.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Chan," I said politely. Bobby shot me a weird look —no doubt taken aback by the random appearance of my manners— but I ignored it; Evelyn didn't raise no barbarian. "I'm Jack Mercer, and this is my brother, Bobby, who insisted on coming. I hope you don't mind. He can go wait in the lobby if you do." I held my breath, hoping he'd say that he most certainly minded and that Bobby had better get the fuck out.

"No problem," Chan replied. "Always nice to have an audience."

Damn.

"You sure?" I asked hopefully. "He might get underfoot."

"Nah, Jack, it'll be like I'm not here," Bobby said with a smirk. He knew I was hoping he'd get kicked out. "Quiet as a cadaver. Scout's honor."

Chan looked a little startled by his dead-body reference, but to his credit, he recovered quickly. "Uh, yes, well...all right, Jack, why don't you have a seat and we'll go over the procedure before we begin."

Thus began the session. Chan started by questioning me extensively about my medical history (which took awhile) and the other addictions I'd had in my life (which took even longer and earned me a few smacks upside the head from the quiet cadaver sitting next to me).

"So, Jack, why do you want to quit smoking?"

I was completely tempted to point to Bobby and say, "He's forcing me," but I decided that probably wasn't the answer either guy was waiting for. So I just told Chan about my mother and how she had made me promise to quit before she died. I didn't go into the details.

After expressing his sympathies, Chan said, "Well, as long as you're _certain _that you want to quit, this should be a very successful session." I tried to nod confidently. This seemed to satisfy Chan, so he launched into a discussion of the procedure. I was just starting to get a little creeped out by what he was describing when he announced cheerfully, "Okay! Time to begin!"

Wincing, I made my way to the table against the far wall, lying down with all the enthusiasm of a man about to be strapped to the lethal injection gurney. I tried to relax as he got his equipment ready, but couldn't quite accomplish my happy place, as Bobby was staring openly at us in morbid fascination. I glared at him, but he just smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I waited until Chan had turned away before I gave Bobby a different finger.

"All right," Chan said as he leaned down to get a better look at my left ear. He brushed some errant hairs out of the way.

This was all the encouragement Bobby needed, and he sounded smug as he remarked, "Told you to shave off those stupid sideburns, Jack."

By this point, Chan and I both were ignoring him.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, my inner ear was pretty pissed at me. I couldn't blame it; it'd had no less than ten miniature electric shocks applied to it, after all. The actual procedure wasn't all that painful, but Chan kept pushing with his fingers and that surprisingly hurt worse. 

Bobby, of course, was the picture of child-like delight and kept interjecting comments like "Do it again!" and "Shock him good, now!"

I think Chan was ready to kill the cadaver all over again by the end of all this, but I'd had years of practice and knew how to tune the idiot out.

"You survived, Jack," Chan said, motioning for me to sit up. "Careful now," he added, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady me as I swayed a bit and waited for my eyes to uncross. "Your equilibrium might be a little whacky." _Gosh, thanks for the belated pearls of caution._

"I hope he topples over," Bobby muttered.

Not in the mood to acknowledge my brother's lack of tact, I swung my legs over the side of the table and stared at the doorway for a moment, relieved to see that my vision had focused. "Thank you, Dr. Chan," I said absently as I hopped down. Yeah. Sure. Thanks for putting my ear through absolute hell.

"I hope your cravings are history, Jack." He smiled brightly, extending a hand, which I politely shook, but kind of wanted to break. "If there are no improvements, don't hesitate to make another appointment."

I nodded absently, then thanked him again and grabbed Bobby by the elbow. "Let's get out of here," I said for my brother's ears only and through a forced smile directed at the doctor, "before I fucking deck that man." Bobby snorted as he followed, but I guess I had murder in my eyes, because when he glanced at me, he suddenly picked up his pace.

We got home and I indulged Jerry and Angel with all the exaggerated details I could think of.

"Well," Angel said after I'd finished my hearty anecdote, "I just hope it fuckin' works to cure your cravings, Jack, 'cause it ain't done _shit _for your asshole attitude."

"I do too, Angel, 'cause you just beat Bobby out for first place on my shit-list."

"Aww," Bobby protested loudly, and when I looked over at him, I could have sworn I saw a geniune expression of disappointment on his face. I chose not to even bother dissecting that. It'd only drive me absolutely bat-shit insane. I love my brother. I really do. He's my big brother, and I've spent the only part of my life I care enough to remember with him...but I will _never_ understand him.


End file.
